it's a false world (with only fake hope)
by Firedawn'd
Summary: Hope. Her head tilted at the thought. What did they mean, by hope? Or, how Earth-X Kara Zor-El came to be. (Earth X-Kara/Earth X-Oliver)
1. Her False Hopes

She was flying.

She was soaring through the red skies as the wind battled against her face and the skies flashed a shade dark and the birds squawked in alarm but amidst it all a grin still shone on her face.

Kara smiled, despite the chaos. Thunder roared and lightning flashed black in the dreary skyscape, and above all of it was a red Sun unfazed by the darkness; burning bright despite it all.

And there was her question: How?

How could they still retain hope? How could… this still be bright, even when all else had fallen into the darkness? How could the humans still retain hope?

She flew, dodging birds and flying through clouds, and soared; up, up and up, 'till the light was blinding and the clouds were white and the birds squawked in paradise.

And she felt a blissful sense of… something.

Something she couldn't quite place.

Until there was a flash of red light and then just like that she was falling and falling and descending into the dark and she wondered if that was what false hope felt like.

…

 _Can you hear me?_

An eon of ringing in her ears subsided just enough for her to hear. Kara shifted, uncomfortably, and she felt the sensation of metal against her back.

 _Where am I?_

She squinted, trying to discern the blurry images in her eyes, but there was nothing but harsh light.

Footsteps clanged on the tiled floor. She heard the distinct scribble of notes and a blur of a white coat; swallowed the taste of sterile air and heard the monotonous beeps on a heart monitor; before the puzzle finally pieced together and she realised in horror where she was.

 _An experiment chamber_. Every bone in her body tensed; and the alarm bells rang in her head with one word repeating itself, over and over: SURVIVE.

Kara couldn't speak. Terror constricted her voice and any defiance that came with it lost. Paralysis hung to her muscles and wouldn't let go. Fatigue disturbed whatever chance of powers she had left.

And the only thing she could do was look at the blurred faces and hope.

The experimenter must've noticed, because his next words chilled her to the bone.

 _''Very well. Test subject #27, Sample #6. Prepare the Red Kryptonite and the solar flare panels. May the Father save your soul_ — _''_

A rev. A creak. An unholy scream.

 _''—And it begins.''_

…

 _Experiment #4217. Sample #6. Trial 47. Test Subject 27. Begin._

 _Lights._

 _It was nothing but light._

 _Light flooded her vision. Glares of red, orange and black flashed in her drugged mind, but none clear enough for her to see what it was. She struggled futility, uselessly—but the bonds were too strong, and she was too weak._

 _Dimly, she saw the Doctor, a grin on his face as he admired the spectacle. He waved a casual hand at the experimenters furiously manning the machines, and her heart tightened like a snake's coil._

 _''Increase the voltage.''_

 _She could hear the weapon revving up, and she saw the Doctor jotting his notes, and her vision flashed rapidly and the jumble of noise was murky, and when the energy reached its maximum and the Doctor hollered a shout,_

 _And finally, a strangled scream tore out of her throat._

…

That pain and torture and agony and the cruelty of it all she experienced in that deranged chamber she forever remembered; and her heart made it so in a way she would never forget.

And all that time, in all of her suffering, she wished she wasn't feeling false hope.

...

 _The doors broke down._

 _In an instant, screams filled the room and Kara groaned at the heightened noises. Murkily, she heard the bangs of the desks and the trillion sprinkles of fragmented glass dinking on the tiled floor. Zing-zing-zing went the arrows and chitters blasted from the machine gun. And she anticipated for a greater crash still for there was a gigantic glass window in the experiment room, there for people to watch her scream._

 _The marches were growing louder. Hollers of commands and barks of orders magnified in amplitude and volume 'till her ears could stand no more. She braced herself—for the glass to shatter and something, anything to end it all._

…

Silence. Not a whisper or a sound. She heard footsteps walk forth, no quieter than the Doctor would've when he thought she didn't notice he was coming. A creak of a door, another step still — and she wished for her eyes to open so she could see who it was.

Nothing.

She could tell that he was nearing her — observing her, perhaps. She strained, and managed a rasp of breath — but that was it.

Soldiers streamed into the room, and the abrupt noise of it all smacked sense into her. She writhed in her bonds, rasped any sound left in her throat and thrashed like a wild animal, all for them to see and hear.

The squadron was quiet again, but it didn't mean that they were gone. They assumed their positions; cocked their rifles towards her struggling form and waited for the orders to shoot.

Futile.

Footsteps marched up to who she assumed was their leader. They exchanged whispers; words they thought she could not hear.

 _''You said that there was a nuclear weapon here. We searched the premises—there is nothing of semblance to it. What's going on — fake intel or bogus resources — again?''_

 _''I was wrong, then. Disassemble the place — leave no remains. Go, now.'' said the leader. His voice was gravelly, melancholic. Kara took note of this._

 _''You didn't answer the question, General. But no matter. You'll tell me when we get back to our quarters. What do we do with the woman?''_

 _''Leave her.'' replied the General. ''I will deal with her.''_

 _''Orders to shoot, then?'' asked the soldier. Kara felt a twinge of irritation. Go ahead, she thought. Let's see who's laughing when the bullets deflect back._

 _''No!'' growled the General, and the sudden shout shocked her back to consciousness. ''Didn't you hear what I said? Leave her.''_

 _''Very well, then.''_

She heard footsteps walk away—the soldier returning to the squadron, she presumed. Kara felt an inkling of... interest. Just who did this general think he was?

Footsteps walked towards her, and she felt herself tense. Suddenly, she heard the whirr of a mechanism, and a sudden clack, and just like that the bonds that had kept her prisoner for so long retracted back into the metal table.

She collapsed from that slanted rectangular display case and crashed onto the floor. Her ears rung in pain and her black vision jarred—and the last thing she felt was two warm hands.

…

 _Are you alright?_

Her brain was fuzzy. Chunks of words processed in her mind, but none held meaning.

 _Can you hear me?_

Her heart beat erratically. Drugged warmth shoved itself in her hand, and the rough voice floated in her pieced mind.

 _Give me a response._

Weakly, she pulled her hand back. The warmth evaporated, and distinctly, she felt the stranger give a satisfied smile.

 _Thank you._

Despite the fading pain and the muddled thoughts, unconsciously, she croaked out: ''will you… kill… me?''

''No.'' The voice she heard began to fade, but it was fierce—determined, even. ''I will not kill you. I will not hurt you. You are safe.''

…

 _''Who are you?''_

 _''I am the General of the second Brethren of the Nazis. My name is Oliver Queen. And you are Kara Zor-El of Krypton.''_

 _Her head cocks; the pillow felt soft. A flickering light shone dimly from above, illuminating his face by the slightest._

 _He continued. ''Landed in a pod in midwest of the Fatherland seeking refuge from your dead planet. Brought up in a partisan-Resistance camp; left in free will in 2008. Last recorded sighting in 2010.''_

 _''How did you find me?''_

 _Shadows danced across Oliver's face—he leaned back in his chair, and it creaked by the slightest._

 _''My division was storming the bunker after we received intel from the enemy unit. I found you in the laboratories of the Resistance, in one of their testing labs. I rescued you.''_

 _Kara stays silent._

 _''Why?''_

 _''You fought. You were still alive when we found you—not unconscious, not comatose—fully awake and thrashing. To be honest, I was surprised. You had a spirit; a spirit which I not seen in anyone else. You wanted to live, despite…'' and at this point, an ironic smile creased his lips, ''despite this world.''_

 _He leans forward. ''And thus I rescued you. I suppose you know the rest.''_

 _Kara curls her lip. ''I wonder what a sickly woman is of use to for the Nazis.''_

 _The Man—Oliver cleared his throat. He looked Kara in the eye, and she saw nothing but emptiness. ''All the other subjects were found dead, and the freshest corpse was of two years. You were still alive when we found you—but you weren't just alive. You were healthy. That speaks enough for itself.''_

 _She furrows her eyebrow. Healthy. That idea itself was laughable._

 _But then, something crosses her mind. ''What year is it?''_

 _''2016.''_

 _Six years. It was six long years of torture._

 _How did she not realise that?_

 _Oliver must've noticed her turmoil—because he got up from his chair. ''Get rest, Kara.'' he murmured, his voice a tone soft. ''And get well soon.''_

 _He pressed his lips to her forehead; strangely, she didn't resist._

 _Before he left the room, Kara called out: ''Wait. What were the experimenters testing me for?''_

 _Oliver turned back towards her. A pause. He wets his lip. ''They were testing the ways to kill you.''_

 _A stretch of silence. ''… Thank you.''_

 _The door clicks shut._

…

She entered the commander centre.

Cold, damp and crowded—those we the words any visitor would use to describe it. Magnificent, refreshing, and commodious? Those were the words a person who had lived Hell in a sterile facility would use to describe it.

It was certainly a breath of fresh air from the stuffed infirmary.

The room was alive. Filled to its brim with conversing soldiers and weapons-testing alike, it had a semblance to a commons room rather than a fully-operational, commander's center.

Kara made her way towards Oliver, who was speaking with another General. She weaved through the crowd of soldiers, in blazing streaks of black and red and a cape to finish it off, when suddenly, inadvertently, she heard a snicker.

Kara stopped. And the spell was broken.

Instantly, silence hushed through the room. Kara turned towards the offender. He was a soldier, no older than his twenties. A sling of badges hung from his shirt pocket despite dressing in casual uniform, and he seemed utterly deaf to the silence.

''Hey, princess,'' he said foolishly. ''Ladies like you shouldn't be here sizing up us brave military men, eh?''

Kara smirked. She almost felt pity for the poor thing, but the hardness in her heart covered it up nicely. The tension from the soldiers was so thick that she could virtually slice it in half. Soldiers around her tensed. She could see Oliver out of the corner of her eye, his attention to the conversation long gone, peering at her with a wary eye.

She knew that look well. Time to prove herself.

The soldier spread his arms, a boyish grin on his bulky features. ''Sorry, lass. But it's us that do the picking 'round here.''

One, single punch. That was all it took. With a sonic blast, he was sent flying through the air and he sounded a horrific scream, before there was a thud and he was slammed into the wide-gate doors.

The room was deathly silent. Without a word, Kara saunters toward the soldier, now struggling in a pile of dusty rubble. She towers over him, a shadow of menace and an air of death posturing from her, and she grabs him by the neck and lifts him up in the air.

''You dare to disrespect,'' she sneered, glaring scornfully at the figure in contempt. ''How truly reprehensible. You dare to... defy. What a trait to be found in obedient soldiers, isn't it?''

A scoff. A smile. She glances at the struggling figure thoughtfully, pondering the man's fate as if it were a simple matter.

Finally, Kara returned her gaze to the crowd of soldiers. She lifts the man effortlessly, and stares into him dead in the eye. ''And so, you will be an example… for them. A shining example of what happens to you when you disrespect your new General.''

'' _G-guh…_ '' he gurgled. Already blood had begun to spurt from his mouth. Kara cocked her head, and faced the watching soldiers again, mesmerized by the horror of it all.

''You want to be remembered? Fine. Do not worry, for your memory will be remembered as far as their fears would go. When the time comes to mark your grave no one will name you. Your memory will be etched in blank stone—and when it is time to speak of your deeds all they will speak of is me.''

Kara raised her voice like she was narrating a holy deed. ''They will remember you as my first victim—and that is the only mark you would leave in this world. I cannot say that it would be an honor; when all that remains of you is forgotten.''

'' _P-please…_ '' he croaked. A gasp. _''I-I'm sorry…''_

A scoff. A smile. She stared into the man's dilating eyes with her cold dead ones. ''There is no room for mercy in the Nazi.''

A second was all it took.

Her hand tightens around his neck and she could almost feel the delight of his blood spurting from his veins, and as her nails clawed its way into his beating pulse she finally finished the job.

One jerk from her wrist. That was all it took.

One sick crunch. That was what gave way.

With a smirk of pleasure, she felt the sound of one pleasant gurgle and saw one last lurch from the man, and before it even started it was done.

She let go.

A thud. The room was deathly silent. She saw Oliver lower his bow, a thin line grazing his lips—satisfied at the turn of events.

Kara waved dismissively at the corpse. ''See to it that the remains are gone. I do not need to see that man's face anymore.''

Oliver barks a command at his soldiers. Hurriedly, two scramble towards the corpse and took it by its arms and legs, and leave the room without a sound.

Smiling, she glances to the crowd, arms spread wide.

''Now that we're all here, let's start, shall we?''

...

The next time she comes in, they're not snickering anymore.

Oliver leads her by the hand; Kara dismisses the orderly ranks of soldiers. A dark glint in her eye and a faint smile on her lips, she strides towards the podium and her cape swayed to the steps.

Oliver straightens his back and lifts his chin. ''I welcome you, SS General Kara, to the New Reich.''

 _''Heil, mein heerführer! Heil mein heerführer! Heil!''_

A wicked grin passes her masked face.

…

The pain starts in her heart.

At first, it isn't noticeable—a mild inconvenience, an annoying irritation, perhaps. But as the days passed by and the pain intensified, she knew that it wasn't just ordinary heartache.

And when the worry came too great and hope was diminished to a trickle and she was finally diagnosed, it was too late.

The disease had taken root in her heart.

...

They lined up for deployment.

Oliver was positioned up front of the troop of Nazis. Wind ruffled his hair and he adjusts his peaked cap, and once that was done he straightens his arms and clasps his hands behind his back.

Kara floated above, in full gear and mask, the quaint breeze fluttering her cape casting an imposing shadow over the rows of troops.

The Sun settled behind the red-streaked mountains. Once darkness swept through the city and there was nothing so much as a flicker of light left, SS General Oliver barked his commands.

''Attention, _Schutzstaffel!_ Division Six will storm the D.E.O led by the General. They have advanced weapons capable of mass destruction— but our quest is for their interdimensional device. Those idiots don't know what it's capable of—but we do. Retrieve the device and kill all that oppose you. That is all.''

The soldiers saluted. _''Heil, mein heerführer!"_

Oliver gave a nod in response. The soldiers abruptly lowered their salute and waited for additional orders.

''Leave us.''

They marched back to their campsite and stood aside, waiting.

Kara descended down from the red skies. She turned to Oliver, whom took off his officer's cap and tucked it under the strap on his uniform. When that was done, he had visibly relaxed.

''I'll miss you,'' stated Kara. ''But our mission is to the Fatherland; and if I shall die, then you will know that it was a glad sacrifice.''

''I know,'' Oliver replies gravely. ''But it does not mean that I cannot fear for you.''

She kissed him on the lips; he doesn't resist.

When her cold lips left his warm ones, he quietly said: ''Kara. The D.E.O is the Resistance's last hope. When it is rendered to rubble and the ashes of their dead, they will stop living in their world of fake hope and accept the grim reality of us. I am counting on you to eradicate the last of their species. Don't fail me.''

Expressionless, she said: ''I'll make sure they don't dare to hope again.''

Then, she turned away and faced the resting soldiers. Turning her mask on, she barks a command and marches out of the camp with the soldiers trailing behind, leaving Oliver behind as he watches her go.

…

''You can't do this, Kara,'' gasped Alex, struggling futilely against her grip. ''I'm your _sister_ , _damnit!_ ''

''Sister, huh?'' Kara's lips curl sadistically. ''Makes me wonder. What makes a sister a sister?''

She slammed Alex against a wall. ''You betrayed me,'' Kara growled through her gritted teeth. ''You left _your sister_ in that hellhole of yours for six bedraggled years— tortured by those _friends_ of yours until I felt like dying was a mercy. You didn't care when the lab was stormed and I was listed among the dead— _hell_ , I didn't even have a _grave_. So that makes me ask: what part of our so-called ''sisterhood'' would prevent me from killing _you_?''

Kara sneers as her grip tightens on Alex's throat. Gasping, Alex croaks: ''You betrayed us; not the other way around. We took you in, saved you from the Nazis and risked our lives to give you a chance—and what did you do? You left us; left your home and joined _them!_ I never took part in your experiments—I tried to save you, goddamnit!'' A retch. ''Kara, please… if you feel something, if you still feel _anything_ , then don't…''

Not a single thing passes Kara's face. Softly, in a tone that never existed till then, she whispered: ''I'm sorry, Alex. But I don't.''

And with just one snap, it was done.

…

''The second _Fuhrer_ is dead,'' Oliver announced, his face a stone mask. ''He was killed by the Resistance in direct combat. He was a great leader; a supreme commander; a respectable combatant; and now his full position and duty passes to me. May his memory be forever etched in stone.''

 _"Heil, mein Fuhrer!"_ Oliver walked by, observing the salute. Kara stood to the side, arms crossed. _"Heil, mein Fuhrer! Heil! Heil!"_

After the third salute, Oliver signals for the salute to cease. Abruptly, all hands dropped, and the soldiers fell back into single file.

After the ceremony was over, Kara waltzes up to him. ''Congratulations,'' she said. ''That _Fuhrer_ deserved to die.''

Oliver doesn't betray anything; not a single twitch of thought or emotion. But there's a cold glint in his eye she recognised one too many times. ''Anything for you, my General.''

Something predatory, something dark flashes in her eyes. ''Good. Now, shall we dance?''

A thin smile spreads over Oliver's face. He takes her hand in his; it was warm. ''Yes. Yes, we shall.''

...

''I don't have much longer to live,'' whispers Kara, pain written over her face. ''The pain is intensifying. I can't withstand it anymore.''

'Don't worry,'' Oliver states, his voice a low murmur. He kisses her cold forehead, and she curls into him. ''Don't you worry. I'll find a way. I'm going to find a way for all of this to end, and you won't need to worry about the agony, the nightmares, or the memories anymore.''

They sleep through the unforgiving night.

…

And it's only when, after the torture and the pain and the sacrifice she thought about it, and she understood.

Everyone was poisoned by the light.

And the darkness is merely a cure.


	2. His False Hopes

Kara is not weak.

She's strong. She's a Kryptonian. She was this world's equivalent to a god; a skin of steel and extraordinary might, unparalleled powers since the time of the Bible and a supreme rule to match.

And yet she was weakened by a disease.

 _Could a god be sickened by that fact?_

It crippled her; ate at her movements, forced her in chronic pain; as it clawed greedily at her delicious heart. And by all means, perhaps it should feast gleefully; for in showing such weaknesses proved even further that she should not feel; should not show her pain; that her emotions were a sin, like a cancer, that should be eradicated per standard.

And yet she felt; and yet she claimed her pain; and worst yet, she loved him.

She betrayed her ideals by not acting on them.

* * *

She tried to appear strong.

 _But was she?_

Her confidence soared over the years.

Or had it abraded?

Her power had grew; her might had grew; her regime had strengthened;

But the _disease_ still pricked at her heart.

* * *

Oliver Queen's had many names.

The citizens called him the Dark Archer.

His men called him the Harbinger of Justice—the one true Fuhrer of the Nazis.

The Resistance mouthed profanities;

His wife called him _her husband_ ;

But his name was; and would only be; Oliver Queen.

* * *

Kara wished she'd never flew into the dark skies and tried to find the light.

 _Or did she?_

It was a palace of broken, scarred memories—poisoned memories of trying to find the light, of feeling the sensation of the so-called hope, of wishing for the strands of victory; until the darkness mentored her viciously and until she accepted its embrace.

 _Had it?_

Her disease was the light; and the darkness was her cure.

 _Or was it the other way around?_

* * *

She hated her family.

Not before, perhaps. But now?

She hated them all with her disgusted heart.

They had weaved her in lies; sealed her away from the truth; swathed her in a blanket of love; gave her a false ideal, a _fake hope_ to strive for. Kara had believed them; at first, until she was taken away and experienced the bitter truth in itself.

And in the bitter truth, she found more about herself than she could with facades of hope, pitiful idealisms and sweet nothings.

* * *

Oliver had been marooned on Purgatory.

He was shipwrecked by the _Queen's Gambit,_ a ship carrying weapons, ammo, and guns and ten men—all necessary resources for the Nazis to successfully take the Resistance's main base, situated on a remote island.

They named it the _Gambit_ for the mission itself was a gambit; they were sending millions of funds into stockpiles of resources reliant on a single, unprotected ship. He and his ten men were supposed to take the resources, and slaughter any and all on the island. Eleven were supposed to wage war against a thousand; to the Nazis, there was no such thing as odds. There was only success, or death.

They named it _Queen_ after him, for it was suicide to sail a ship upon the shores of the Resistance, where radars and scouts would've caught him miles ago. It was supposed to be a man's honor; his martyrdom, remembered throughout the decades as the man who conquered the Resistance's final hope.

He wasn't suicidal. But Oliver took the mission anyway. But not for the glory; and certainly not the death.

He had a change of heart. The base the Nazis were to storm was home to his sister Thea and his mother, Moria. He hated the Nazis; and he wished, _oh he wished so futility_ , that he could play a game of make-pretend—that he'd captured the base, that he gave the orders, that he slaughtered their enemies; that he was with his family.

But his pipe dream when to the drain, when the Queen's Gambit sprung a leak and just like that, his hopes were washed away with the storm without a trace.

He was stuck on the island; shipwrecked by the _Queen's Gambit,_ a ship carrying his vain hopes; his daunting wishes; his wishful dreams; that had sunk when the floorboards sprung a leak.

It took the Nazis five years to send a rescue party. And it was for the resources and most certainly not for him.

He waited for the bullet to bite his head.

But after a look at his uniform and the swastika on his chest, they whisked him away on their boat back to the dastard Motherland.

* * *

Oliver Queen.

The _Fuhrer_ of the fourth Reich. Their leader; _her leader,_ their Dark Archer; _her husband_.

He's not weak, either.

He's the Fuhrer. He holds the power over the world. He's a ruler.

He's strong. And he loves her.

He loves her.

So he's weak all the same.

* * *

The Fuhrer's orders were unavoidable. In his reasoning, Oliver had still accepted the mission five years ago, and the mission was not complete. So he was forced to traverse the seas yet again, to a paradise corrupted after he died his watery death.

He didn't dream, this time. He didn't hope. He didn't plea.

He simply couldn't.

His sister didn't recognize him when he finally took ahold of the base.

Thea only glared at him; spat at him; and screamed curses at his many names. She said they murdered her family; said the Nazis ruined her father, tortured her mother, and kidnapped her baby brother, taken to _who-knows-where_ and was done to _who knows what._

He was glad that she didn't recognize him then.

But he needed an example made; to hold to his reputation and pride.

He was forced to execute her.

She died, with her breathing last words: _''Oliver Queen will kill you for this.''_

She didn't need to. Oliver Queen was long dead.

* * *

Oliver Queen gave her life.

After the torture and the neverending pain and torment that stemmed from her heart, strapped to a hospital bed, she had waited to die.

The Nazi Doctors had diagnosed her with Radiation Overexposure.

There was no cure, they'd told her. They needed to experiment on her; to _torture_ her, if they wanted further diagnoses. It was a risky procedure that exposed her to Kryptonite; and frankly, she had no love for agony, nor Doctors or torture.

She would die under the experiments of Doctors again. And even if she did survive, it was no life to live. Riddled to a hospital bed for her life; left contemplating suicide as the heart monitors spiked erratically.

Until Oliver Queen came in, abstaining from his duty as he came for her.

He told her that there was no cure for suffering. That pain was eternal; as it was with all lifeforms on Earth.

 _But she was no human. She was better._

He had helped her endure; he helped her strive. And the day she left the bed was the day she forgone Kara Zor-El, and became SS General Kara.

It was that night when they shared a kiss.

* * *

Their marriage ceremony was devoid of life.

It was just them; staring at the ruins of a dead Nazi camp, stormed by the best of the Resistance. Once their first base; destroyed many years ago, along with the bastard memories and the evocative nostalgia—all lost, long gone.

 _Alex's forces,_ she thought in distaste. That is, until she murdered her sister for it.

''Is there any better place to forget?'' Kara murmured, at the hollow, arcid waste. ''In the waste of the damned memories.''

Staring up at the red skies, at the red Sun that razed the Earth, she muttered: ''If only we could extinguish the scintillating, red sun. Fell the darkness to Earth that it deserves.''

Oliver's lips tighten. ''We've dealt enough waste to this Earth already. We can leave the Resistance survivors alive—after all,'' and at this, he gave her a rueful, knowing smile, ''—false hope is what feels best, isn't it?''

Kara snarled. Her own memories bombarded her mind, of fake hope and lost lives. ''They're like cockroaches, husband. If we do not eradicate them, then they'll multiply by the dozen. Hope strengthens their resolve. Despair morphs into willpower.'' She curls her lip, feeling the scars from her torture on her lips. ''We know best.''

''There's no way they'll force a rise,'' Oliver replied soothingly. He chuckled. ''And we'll mirror our pain for theirs to salvage. They will endure our suffering.'' And then, quietly, he added: ''Without hope to rise.''

Oliver took a kneel right then; as she descended from the skies and he proposed a ring of genocide;

Kara accepted.

* * *

They were ravaging.

Marching onwards with her soldiers, she hollered out commands as screams of terror tore through the town.

Some were shivering; cradling their children in their arms, hiding in the solace of the shadows as they marched past and releasing a bated breath once they were gone—without the knowledge that their town would be bombed once they left. People who fled through the alleyways and streets made easy targets for the Nazis. And those that made no noise; those that stood their ground and made their last stand were quickly mowed down with a dozen bullets.

In the middle of the town was a fountain, obtrusively out-of-place in the evident chaos. Bubbling with a calm sort of demeanor, it stood in stark contrast to the state of its people—which was complete pandemonium.

By the fountain-side sat a woman, rocking a child in her arms. She was old; approaching her sixties. Singing a hushed lullaby, she seemed oblivious to the world.

(And maybe all for the better, perhaps.)

Her child slept quietly in her rocking arms. It was swaddled in thin blue blankets, a true rarity for the common-folk. Tufts of black hair grew on its pudgy head, and it was sucking feebly on its thumb. Kara wondered if she looked like that, once.

It seemed healthy. Not sickly like the most. Kara would've deemed it worthy of the Nazis, of course, if it did not belong to an opposing town.

Kara studied the woman, who was humming lullabies to her child. The old woman's features were similar to of a rotted prune, with sucked-in cheeks, stretched skin and a starved physique—it was hard not to see the semblance.

They sat there, on the fountain-side, humming lullabies and evading sleep, unbeknownst to the presence of the Nazi General staring at the duo.

And all of it was a source for her intrigue. Unlike the protesters, where all they wanted was to make a ''final call'', a ''last stand'' if you would; casting up all their fake bravado to mask that little fear of death within—this was different. The woman—and to an extent, the child was calm; as if she knew not of them or the chaos of the town.

 _What were they doing here?_

As if reading her thoughts, the woman responded.

''Tis the only place I can concentrate,'' chuckled the woman. ''Everything else is of screams.''

A ghostly familiarity panged her. Something she quite couldn't place.

Aloud, she spoke: ''What use is there concentrating when you know that nothing but death awaits you?''

''Precisely.'' replied the woman. She was still rocking the baby; still humming that lullaby; like Kara was not even there. ''Screams are nothin' but a cry. A call for help; when help is nowhere near here. S'pose you should know that by know, with all these rotten years…'' she chuckled, once again, as if she were laughing at some sort of bitter joke she could not get. ''Better off waitin' here like a sitting duck than run off my head screamin'. ''

Kara didn't reply. There wasn't anything to say when she knew it was true.

After an arch of silence, the woman finally responded. ''Concentratin's better than screamin' your head off at some inevitable end. Better restin' than escapin', 'specially when everyone knows that _they'll_ eventually get to you no matter what you do.''

Kara glanced at the woman. ''Leaving was a viable option—''

''—Leavin' was never an option.'' The woman ended firmly. ''I don't see no valiant hero trying to pull a blind woman out of this chaos. Good to know that I shouldn't've ever stayed here and wished for the best.''

''You clung to hope.'' Kara's voice was stony. ''Even when it was nothing but futile.''

The woman nodded, slowly. Her wrinkled lips twitched in the slightest—not a smile, and yet not exactly a frown— and another familiarity panged in her wretched heart.

She continued to hum, and continued to rock the baby in her arms. Perhaps aware of her stare, she said: ''I found 'him abandoned in a farm. Took 'em in, named him Kal. Ironic, I s'pose; it means 'hope'.''

Kara studied the baby. He was content, face free of anxiety and fear. It lay there, eyes closed and still, unaware of life or death or despair or its end.

It was at peace.

Kara was silent. Without a word, she signaled to her soldiers. One of them stepped forward, and pressed a gun into her hands.

 _They were at peace._

Kara holstered the gun.

As the blind woman hummed quietly and rocked her child on, the child yawned sleepily and blinked open its eyes. And for the first time in its life a flash of fear it felt.

She had a distant look in her eyes as she readied the gun and two shots rang out in the quiet—

And for the first time in her life, she felt mercy.

* * *

Oliver was glad that the Fuhrer died.

He had built up trust; after taking the Resistance's main base. He talked sweetly; he hailed the Fuhrer's name; he gave rousing speeches; and just like that, he was the new Fuhrer of the Regime.

Oliver Queen was dead.

He was the Fuhrer.

* * *

They've reported of a device.

The soldiers had burst into their chambers in an ecstasy, as they excitedly told them about a genocidal device found just on the outskirts of a destroyed Resistance Camp; noticing neither her nor Oliver's states.

Kara burned off their heads, for disturbing _them_ in _their_ quarters. And then, with a cold kiss on her husband's cheek, she left to see the device for her own.

She nears the device. It was pulsing a monstrous beat, blinking a degree red. It was unstable, violent, and… beautiful.

She exhaled. Curling the device in her hand, she admired it carefully.

A weapon of eradication. A harbinger of death. An angelic genocide.

And what do those partisan idiots do when they discover such an artifact? Store it away somewhere remote—safe and secure where no one would ever have so much a smidgen of a chance at such glorious power.

She knew rulers who would've gladly given their lives for power. Hitler was one. Stalin was another.

And she? She was merely one wading in a sea thick of them all. Another megalomaniac ruler, unsated by desire and thirst for a rule of simple power.

But she wasn't just ''one of them''. She was a Kryptonian. Far superior to the swirling emotions of humankind. She was, in all terms, better.

 _And yet a disease_ _festered her heart_.

* * *

He didn't love her, not at first.

She was captured by the D.E.O. and tortured by its allied-division, C.A.D.M.U.S. Desperate times came for desperate measures; once the last Fuhrer came into power, C.A.D.M.U.S. felt its position was threatened, and joined in with the Resistance, whose members grew and multiplied like cancer cells, resisting the hand that tried to cure the virus that ran through their veins. Even the friends of enemies were their enemy.

He'd read her files. Kara Zor-El. She was of alien descent; brought up in a Resistance Camp, but left of free-will, where she was captured by C.A.D.M.U.S. on the D.E.O.'s alert.

Exposure to radiation for six years, but not sickly. She was angelic. A spot of hope in the darkness of the night.

He didn't love her, not at first. But time and memories they could share, and share they did.

And it was that night; when they stared at the ruins of their Camp, and thought of the memories that he proposed with a universe-wide Nazism scheme; and a way to cut out the sick heart from her skin.

She accepted. And just like that, he wasn't the Fuhrer of the Regime anymore.

He's the husband of Kara Zor-El.

He had a family again. And he had a duty to his family—and this family he would not fail.

He was Oliver Queen once again.

* * *

She was in a relationship with the Fuhrer.

It was fairly, perhaps, that the Nazis didn't know about it.

If she saw their relationship in the stance of a tyrant, then she would've seen herself as weak. Nazis didn't tolerate relationships—all they brought was a burden of unnecessary emotion, intolerable softness, and a painted target on their backs.

They murdered weakness, and yet she had a weakness of her own.

 _Did that make her weak?_

It was hypocritical, but she doesn't think of it in that way.

They were stronger. Stronger together.

He was her hope; he was what gave her

It's twisted, but it is love all the same.

 _But how could they be stronger; when the weakness was the very love itself?_

* * *

He loved her.

She loved him.

He was the blazing carnage to her cold inevitable cataclysm.

She was the bidding frost to quell his inferno.

They were husband and wife.

* * *

 **A/N:** Apologies for the late update! This one is more from Earth-X Oliver's perspective.

Obviously I do not support Nazism. This fic mostly explores the dynamic between Overgirl/Dark Arrow. In Kara's words: _It's twisted love, but it's love all the same._


End file.
